HOW I WON THE NEW YORK MARATHON
Several years ago, I decided to take up jogging. The sport was becoming a national craze, especially for those who had given up smoking and sought to improve their health.
Having been a smoker for most of my life and lately consuming four packs a day of Lucky Strikes, there were two reasons I quit. The first was the expense of smoking which was about four or five dollars a day, and my health. I hated getting up each morning and hacking my lungs out.
The first thing on my jogging journey was to learn everything I could about running long distances and jogging. I purchased books and magazines. I found the subject to be fascinating. One of the things I noticed first was the puny size of most dedicated runners. They looked like a bunch of skinny twerps. Here I was, 6’4” and 250 lbs. Was this a sport for me? I remembered the days in high school and college when I ran laps around the ¼ mile track to get in shape or if I didn’t feel very well. There were times I would run a few miles, and I always found it boring but effective. I could shake a cold by running.
I was more interested in competitive running than just jogging. How could these guys run these unbelievable distances keeping their bodies working and moving for so long? Wow, to me, it was amazing. Then I had an epiphany. Boxers big and small were known for running. They called it road work. Fabulous! It had never dawned on me before. I thought of the film Rocky and realized that road work was nothing more than jogging. The thought of competitive running was placed on the back burner even though it was still of interest to me. I am known to be a competitor and warrior.
That afternoon I headed to the closest running store. The name of the establishment was The Super Runners Shop. When I arrived, I was greeted by a guy dressed in runners garb. He introduced himself as Gary Merke, the owner of the shop. The store looked to me to be about medium size with green artificial grass carpet and several displays, racks of clothing, a wall of fixtures. With what seemed to be an endless variety of running shoes. There were dressing rooms, many chairs, and a counter for a cashier register and reading material. There were also a few other men dressed in running gear hanging out. They were all very slender, and there was no question they were. Runners.
Gary asked if he could help me. I told him I was there to buy a pair of running shoes. He smirked at me and asked if I intended to do some jogging? I told him I do. He asked if I had ever jogged before. I told him about my running around the track, and he asked me about the running shoes I wore. I told him that I usually wore football cleats or tennis shoes. He immediately took me to the wall where all the running shoes were located and showed me the ones he would recommend for a guy my size. I tried a few on and found the perfect fit. How very cool. A pair of Saucanys’ and exactly the model Bill Rogers, the last New York Marathon winner, had worn. Did he say Marathon? I had to find out more. While I was there, I picked up a couple of running books by Jim Fixx and Dr. Cooper, along with the most current copy of Runners World magazine. Money was no object. I was on my way.
I loved those running shoes and wore them whenever I could to break them in. I read the two books intently and subscribed to Runners World. I started running at the local track every day. I made several trips to Super Runners and made it my hang-out. I became friendly with Gary and two of the other guys who seemed to live there. One was Peter O’Neil, and the other was Mark Bosidart. Both were very highly rated ex-college long-distance runners. As it turned out, Gary was the winner of the first New York Marathon and the annual race to the top of the Empire State Building. He was also a retired New York Fireman out on disability. I could never figure that out. One thing for sure, I was in good company.
Many months went by, and the buzz around the store was all about the upcoming New York Marathon and how the guys would train and prepare for the event. I got into it myself. I changed my diet, started to put in more miles, tried to increase my speed, running in the streets (I had graduated from the track), slept more, and let running become a spiritual thing when I was doing hills. Up the hills was paying penance, and down was the reward. I was into it in a big way. I also ran several 5k races in the area.
The day of the marathon had arrived. I drove into the city and pushed my way through the crowd to the finish line. After the first two and half hours, I could see the leaders entering Central Park from Thirty-Ninth Street. They were running in a group, and then there was the breakaway runner, Jim Rogers, wearing my shoes. I was exhilarated. Then the rest of the pack approached the finish line. Some collapsed but most went through their respective chutes. The times were astounding. I think Rogers's time was just under two hours and ten minutes. I thought to myself, it was amazing. These guys just ran twenty-six and two-tenths miles like gazelles. Truly an accomplishment. The race went on for hours. Runners were coming in at a steady pace long after Peter and Mark had finished. Some as long as six hours. Many required medical attention and many crawled over the finish line. What character and guts. I decided to run the race the following year. I had to experience what I was witnessing.
The next year was a strange one for me. I kept my running up and ran very hard. I found myself to the point where I ran five to ten miles a day and even more. I ran day and night. I trimmed down a lot. I continued to frequent the running store and informed them I was seriously training and intending to run the marathon. I was met with ridicule and mocking laughter. This bunch did not realize how determined I was and did not realize that their attitude made me even more determined. After all, I had become a friend and a partner in running. Also, I had become a great customer. I now had running outfits and several pairs of running shoes. In addition to the running, my wife decided she wanted to divorce me. That issue occupied my mind most of the time. There I was with two children and all that pressure from that miserable bitch. Yes, I’ll repeat it, that miserable bitch.
Soon came the arrival of the marathon. An application had to filed along with a deposit long before the race. Times had to be posted. Lots of red tapes. Then if you were lucky, you would receive your confirmation. Once one qualified, the selections were made by lottery. I was on pins and needles. Finally, one day the mail arrived, and I was chosen. The next step was to make a trip into New York to sign in officially.
When I arrived at the sign-in site, it was similar to a carnival or street fair. Lots of tables displaying various types of shoes and running gear. Samples of this and that. I got into my respective line and had about a twenty-minute wait. I checked in.
I was given a plastic bag containing a tee-shirt, my number card, a pair of running shorts and a bunch of souvenirs, and a packet of instructions for the race along with a bus pass from Manhattan to the start of Verranzarro Bridge, times, and so on. Somewhat complicated, but those were the instruction. If you wanted to run, you had to comply.
The next day I was stoked. I went to Super Runners to compare notes but mostly to show my stuff. The guys were laughing their asses off at me. The thought of me even finishing the marathon was too much for them. I was hurt and pissed off simultaneously, but I had to admit I was out of my element.
That evening I received a call from a guy I met months earlier while running. He asked if I was running the race and if he could go with me to Manhattan. The next morning we left for the race at three-thirty AM. We arrived in NY at about five and found a parking space about ten blocks from the busing point. We took our throw-away running clothes and all the items necessary for the race. Vaseline for being chafe between our legs and our nipples, aspirin, stocking caps, gloves, and socks. Interestingly, your body heats up to the point where you must shed clothing to cool off as you're running. As a result, we brought old items to throw away as we ran. The entire crowd looked like a bunch of raggedy assed cadets.
After an overcrowded bus ride, we arrived at the starting line area. It was frigid and windy that day, so we were permitted to enter a large building nearby to protect us from the elements. Upon entering, we noticed thousands of people milling around and a huge group lying on the floor of a basketball court. That was for us, so we made our way through and made space for us on the floor. We were about an hour before race time. Little did I know that the inclement weather would give me an advantage.
After a period of time, a loud horn blew and an announcement that the race was about to begin. We all stood up and started to the exit. It took about an hour to get situated at the starting line. Over fifteen thousand people to manage and arrange by recorded running times. First the elite runners, then the speedy runners, and so on. My buddy and I were in the last group.
How unfair, I thought. I bet the runners in group one didn’t have to drive into Manhattan at 3:30 am. Well, here we were frozen stiff at the starting line. We started to jump up and down to get the blood flowing. Then the starting gun went off. We were on our way, we thought. It took almost a half-hour for the crowd to get moving to any semblance of running. At first, it was a slow walk, then a fast walk, and then a slow jog that developed into a run. It felt pretty good and finally warmed up.
We ran and ran. A dream come true. The streets were crowded with onlookers. Music was blaring Chariots of Fire and the theme for Rocky. I was pumped and felt like a supreme athlete. We ran as if we had wings. First off came my gloves, then my jacket. I tucked my hat under my shirt along with my survival gear. Now and then, there were water stations operated by volunteers giving out cups of water and Gatorade.
We ran through Brooklyn and then Queens, being cheered all the way. When we reached 59th st. Bridge I notice the carpet on the running path over the metal grate had been blown off. This problem would be rough on my feet, so I decided to sprint the mile plus of the bridge. As I ran, I felt my feet grabbing the grate, and it reminded me of paying my penance. I was in a zone giving it all I got. One by one, I was passing other runners. Digging deep into the cold wind. Finally, I reached the crest and then started my downhill reward. After I made the turn at the bottom of the bridge, I heard the Rocky theme. I stopped and started to jump up and down as Rocky did on the steps of the library. Victory. How great?
I continued running, and I will tell you the bridge at the 15-mile mark had taken most of what I had. The rest of the race was about the toughest thing I had ever done. It is known as hitting the wall. I experienced every emotion possible. I even wept a bit. It was then I realized how fortunate I was to have had this cold and windy weather to run in. Had it been a warm day, I probably would have died.
I just gave it my all. In Harlem, a cop stopped me at a water station and asked if I could continue. I must have looked pretty bad. He told me not to quit here because they would steal my sneakers if I stopped. I thought that was pretty funny. Then came an entrance to Central Park with a slight hill that seemed like a mountain to me. I was faltering with each step. Then came the exit to 59th St. for what seemed forever. Finally, the next entrance to the park appeared. As I entered, the finish line was in sight. People were cheering; all dressed in winter coats and ski jackets. There was a band playing Rocky. I became inspired, so I sprinted as fast as I could to the finish line. When I reached the chute, a beautiful woman greeted me. She gave me a hug and a bottle of Perrier. Along with it, she places a ribbon and medal around my neck, signifying that I had finished the New York Marathon. I turned to the clock and noted I ran the darn thing in 4 hours, 55 minutes, and 20 seconds and that I had finished 11, 490. I had reached my goals. One to finish and the other to finish in less than 5 hours. Not too bad.
I caught up with my buddy a few minutes later at the finish line. Both of us were spent. We found the car and drove home. We stopped at a bar on the way and toasted ourselves with a triple of Johnny Walker Black and then went home with the chill gone.
The next day I was sore all over. I showered up and went down to Super Runners to see how the other guys made out. I was greeted with the usual bullshit. Hey, Warren, did you run? Yup. What was your time? 455–20. They started to laugh. Then I asked their time, and they both said they didn’t finish because of the weather. I started to laugh. They looked at me inquiringly. I said, THEN I WON THE MARATHON. Why? BECAUSE I FINISHED, AND YOU GUYS DIDN’T !!! How about that?
I exited the store with a grin and went for a 16-mile run.
THAT WAS THE BEST
